Expository ESSAY GUIDELINE AND QUESTIONS TO ANSWER:
(Hayakawa & Nietzsche): Writing 120 years apart, both Hayakawa and Nietzsche take up the
same premise: language and concepts have no direct relationship to the “outside” world (what H.
calls “extensional,” and N. calls “the thing in itself”). Both authors also give similar descriptions
of how concepts and language arise, and they encourage their readers to become aware of the
process. In your essay, explain how Hayakawa and Nietzsche are similar in the way they illustrate
the origin of language. Secondly, explore how they seem to differ in other ways. For example,
Hayakawa says that being aware of where language comes from leads to more accurate, fair
thinking. Nietzsche, on the other hand, celebrates a kind of freedom from restraint (especially in
Part II) that comes from this awareness.
THE ONLY TWO SOURCES: Attached are their readings to use for this Expository Essay.
Hayakawa
Nietzsche
For this essay it is not necessary to use sources outside of the provided readings I have attached. The goal is to
put these two authors you read into conversation with one another by summarizing, comparing, contrasting and
synthesizing their ideas. Develop a thoughtful and complex thesis; summarize the works you are discussing; paraphrase key ideas; introduce evidence including quotations; unpack and
explain the evidence; and tie it in to support your thesis.
Please Provide in-text author names and page numbers for paraphrases and quotations.
On Truth and Lie in an Extra-Moral Sense
Frederich Nietzsche
1
In some remote corner of the universe, poured out and glittering in innumerable solar systems, there once
was a star on which clever animals invented knowledge. That was the highest and most mendacious
minute of “world history”—yet only a minute. After nature had drawn a few breaths the star grew cold,
and the clever animals had to die.
One might invent such a fable and still not have illustrated sufficiently how wretched, how shadowy and
flighty, how aimless and arbitrary, the human intellect appears in nature. There have been eternities when
it did not exist; and when it is done for again, nothing will have happened. For this intellect has no further
mission that would lead beyond human life. It is human, rather, and only its owner and producer gives it
such importance, as if the world pivoted around it. But if we could communicate with the mosquito, then
we would learn that he floats through the air with the same self-importance, feeling within itself the flying
center of the world. There is nothing in nature so despicable or insignificant that it cannot immediately be
blown up like a bag by a slight breath of this power of knowledge; and just as every porter wants an
admirer, the proudest human being, the philosopher, thinks that he sees on the eyes of the universe
telescopically focused from all sides on his actions and thoughts.
It is strange that this should be the effect of the intellect, for after all it was given only as an aid to the
most unfortunate, most delicate, most evanescent beings in order to hold them for a minute in existence,
from which otherwise, without this gift, they would have every reason to flee as quickly as Lessing’s
son. [In a famous letter to Johann Joachim Eschenburg (December 31, 1778), Lessing relates the death of
his infant son, who “understood the world so well that he left it at the first opportunity.”] That haughtiness
which goes with knowledge and feeling, which shrouds the eyes and senses of man in a blinding fog,
therefore deceives him about the value of existence by carrying in itself the most flattering evaluation of
knowledge itself. Its most universal effect is deception; but even its most particular effects have
something of the same character.
The intellect, as a means for the preservation of the individual, unfolds its chief powers in simulation; for
this is the means by which the weaker, less robust individuals preserve themselves, since they are denied
the chance of waging the struggle for existence with horns or the fangs of beasts of prey. In man this art
of simulation reaches its peak: here deception, flattering, lying and cheating, talking behind the back,
posing, living in borrowed splendor, being masked, the disguise of convention, acting a role before others
and before oneself—in short, the constant fluttering around the single flame of vanity is so much the rule
and the law that almost nothing is more incomprehensible than how an honest and pure urge for truth
could make its appearance among men. They are deeply immersed in illusions and dream images; their
eye glides only over the surface of things and sees “forms”; their feeling nowhere lead into truth, but
contents itself with the reception of stimuli, playing, as it were, a game of blindman’s buff on the backs of
things. Moreover, man permits himself to be lied to at night, his life long, when he dreams, and his moral
sense never even tries to prevent this—although men have been said to have overcome snoring by sheer
will power.
What, indeed, does man know of himself! Can he even once perceive himself completely, laid out as if in
an illuminated glass case? Does not nature keep much the most from him, even about his body, to
spellbind and confine him in a proud, deceptive consciousness, far from the coils of the intestines, the
quick current of the blood stream, and the involved tremors of the fibers? She threw away the key; and
woe to the calamitous curiosity which might peer just once through a crack in the chamber of
consciousness and look down, and sense that man rests upon the merciless, the greedy, the insatiable, the
murderous, in the indifference of his ignorance—hanging in dreams, as it were, upon the back of a tiger.
In view of this, whence in all the world comes the urge for truth?
Insofar as the individual wants to preserve himself against other individuals, in a natural state of affairs he
employs the intellect mostly for simulation alone. But because man, out of need and boredom, wants to
exist socially, herd-fashion, he requires a peace pact and he endeavors to banish at least the very
crudest bellum omni contra omnes [war of all against all] from his world. This peace pact brings with it
something that looks like the first step toward the attainment of this enigmatic urge for truth. For now that
is fixed which henceforth shall be “truth”; that is, a regularly valid and obligatory designation of things is
invented, and this linguistic legislation also furnishes the first laws of truth: for it is here that the contrast
between truth and lie first originates. The liar uses the valid designations, the words, to make the unreal
appear as real; he says, for example, “I am rich,” when the word “poor” would be the correct designation
of his situation. He abuses the fixed conventions by arbitrary changes or even by reversals of the names.
When he does this in a self-serving way damaging to others, then society will no longer trust him but
exclude him. Thereby men do not flee from being deceived as much as from being damaged by deception:
what they hate at this stage is basically not the deception but the bad, hostile consequences of certain
kinds of deceptions. In a similarly limited way man wants the truth: he desires the agreeable life-preserving consequences of truth, but he is indifferent to pure knowledge, which has no consequences; he
is even hostile to possibly damaging and destructive truths. And, moreover, what about these conventions
of language? Are they really the products of knowledge, of the sense of truth? Do the designations and the
things coincide? Is language the adequate expression of all realities?
Only through forgetfulness can man ever achieve the illusion of possessing a “truth” in the sense just
designated. If he does not wish to be satisfied with truth in the form of a tautology—that is, with empty
shells—then he will forever buy illusions for truths. What is a word? The image of a nerve stimulus in
sounds. But to infer from the nerve stimulus, a cause outside us, that is already the result of a false and
unjustified application of the principle of reason. If truth alone had been the deciding factor in the
genesis of language, and if the standpoint of certainty had been decisive for designations, then how could
we still dare to say “the stone is hard,” as if “hard” were something otherwise familiar to us, and not
merely a totally subjective stimulation! We separate things according to gender, designating the tree as
masculine and the plant as feminine. What arbitrary assignments! How far this oversteps the canons of
certainty! We speak of a “snake”: this designation touches only upon its ability to twist itself and could
therefore also fit a worm. What arbitrary differentiations! What one-sided preferences, first for this, then
for that property of a thing! The different languages, set side by side, show that what matters with words
is never the truth, never an adequate expression; else there would not be so many languages. The “thing in
itself” (for that is what pure truth, without consequences, would be) is quite incomprehensible to the
creators of language and not at all worth aiming for. One designates only the relations of things to man,
and to express them one calls on the boldest metaphors. A nerve stimulus, first transposed into an
image—first metaphor. The image, in turn, imitated by a sound—second metaphor. And each time there
is a complete overleaping of one sphere, right into the middle of an entirely new and different one. One
can imagine a man who is totally deaf and has never had a sensation of sound and music. Perhaps such a
person will gaze with astonishment at Chladni’s sound figures; perhaps he will discover their causes in the
vibrations of the string and will now swear that he must know what men mean by “sound.” It is this way
with all of us concerning language; we believe that we know something about the things themselves when
we speak of trees, colors, snow, and flowers; and yet we possess nothing but metaphors for things—
metaphors which correspond in no way to the original entities. In the same way that the sound appears as
a sand figure, so the mysterious X of the thing in itself first appears as a nerve stimulus, then as an image,
and finally as a sound. Thus the genesis of language does not proceed logically in any case, and all the
material within and with which the man of truth, the scientist, and the philosopher later work and build, if
not derived from never-never land, is a least not derived from the essence of things.
Let us still give special consideration to the formation of concepts. Every word immediately becomes a
concept, inasmuch as it is not intended to serve as a reminder of the unique and wholly individualized
original experience to which it owes its birth, but must at the same time fit innumerable, more or less
similar cases—which means, strictly speaking, never equal—in other words, a lot of unequal cases. Every
concept originates through our equating what is unequal. No leaf ever wholly equals another, and the
concept “leaf” is formed through an arbitrary abstraction from these individual differences, through
forgetting the distinctions; and now it gives rise to the idea that in nature there might be something
besides the leaves which would be “leaf”—some kind of original form after which all leaves have been
woven, marked, copied, colored, curled, and painted, but by unskilled hands, so that no copy turned out to
be a correct, reliable, and faithful image of the original form. We call a person “honest.” Why did he act
so honestly today? we ask. Our answer usually sounds like this: because of his honesty. Honesty! That is
to say again: the leaf is the cause of the leaves. After all, we know nothing of an essence-like quality
named “honesty”; we know only numerous individualized, and thus unequal actions, which we equate by
omitting the unequal and by then calling them honest actions. In the end, we distill from them a qualitas
occulta [hidden quality] with the name of “honesty.” We obtain the concept, as we do the form, by
overlooking what is individual and actual; whereas nature is acquainted with no forms and no concepts,
and likewise with no species, but only with an X which remains inaccessible and indefinable for us. For
even our contrast between individual and species is something anthropomorphic and does not originate in
the essence of things; although we should not presume to claim that this contrast does not correspond o
the essence of things: that would of course be a dogmatic assertion and, as such, would be just as
indemonstrable as its opposite.
What, then, is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms—in short, a sum
of human relations which have been enhanced, transposed, and embellished poetically and rhetorically,
and which after long use seem firm, canonical, and obligatory to a people: truths are illusions about which
one has forgotten that this is what they are; metaphors which are worn out and without sensuous power;
coins which have lost their pictures and now matter only as metal, no longer as coins.
We still do not know where the urge for truth comes from; for as yet we have heard only of the obligation
imposed by society that it should exist: to be truthful means using the customary metaphors—in moral
terms: the obligation to lie according to a fixed convention, to lie herd-like in a style obligatory for all.
Now man of course forgets that this is the way things stand for him. Thus he lies in the manner indicated,
unconsciously and in accordance with habits which are centuries’ old; and precisely by means of this
unconsciousness and forgetfulness he arrives at his sense of truth. From the sense that one is obliged to
designate one thing as red, another as cold, and a third as mute, there arises a moral impulse in regard to
truth. The venerability, reliability, and utility of truth is something which a person demonstrates for
himself from the contrast with the liar, whom no one trusts and everyone excludes. As a rational being, he
now places his behavior under the control of abstractions. He will no longer tolerate being carried away
by sudden impressions, by intuitions. First he universalizes all these impressions into less colorful, cooler
concepts, so that he can entrust the guidance of his life and conduct to them. Everything which
distinguishes man from the animals depends upon this ability to volatilize perceptual metaphors in a
schema, and thus to dissolve an image into a concept. For something is possible in the realm of these
schemata which could never be achieved with the vivid first impressions: the construction of a pyramidal
order according to castes and degrees, the creation of a new world of laws, privileges, subordinations, and
clearly marked boundaries—a new world, one which now confronts that other vivid world of first
impressions as more solid, more universal, better known, and more human than the immediately
perceived world, and thus as the regulative and imperative world. Whereas each perceptual metaphor is
individual and without equals and is therefore able to elude all classification, the great edifice of concepts
displays the rigid regularity of a Roman columbarium and exhales in logic that strength and coolness
which is characteristic of mathematics. Anyone who has felt this cool breath [of logic] will hardly believe
that even the concept—which is as bony, foursquare, and transposable as a die—is nevertheless merely
the residue of a metaphor, and that the illusion which is involved in the artistic transference of a nerve
stimulus into images is, if not the mother, then the grandmother of every single concept. But in this
conceptual crap game “truth” means using every die in the designated manner, counting its spots
accurately, fashioning the right categories, and never violating the order of caste and class rank. Just as
the Romans and Etruscans cut up the heavens with rigid mathematical lines and confined a god within
each of the spaces thereby delimited, as within a templum, so every people has a similarly mathematically
divided conceptual heaven above themselves and henceforth thinks that truth demands that each
conceptual god be sought only within his own sphere. Here one may certainly admire man as a mighty
genius of construction, who succeeds in piling an infinitely complicated dome of concepts upon an
unstable foundation, and, as it were, on running water. Of course, in order to be supported by such a
foundation, his construction must be like one constructed of spiders’ webs: delicate enough to be carried
along by the waves, strong enough not to be blown apart by every wind. As a genius of construction man
raises himself far above the bee in the following way: whereas the bee builds with wax that he gathers
from nature, man builds with the far more delicate conceptual material which he first has to manufacture
from himself. In this he is greatly to be admired, but not on account of his drive for truth or for pure
knowledge of things. When someone hides something behind a bush and looks for it again in the same
place and finds it there as well, there is not much to praise in such seeking and finding. Yet this is how
matters stand regarding seeking and finding “truth” within the realm of reason. If I make up the definition
of a mammal, and then, after inspecting a camel, declare “look, a mammal” I have indeed brought a truth
to light in this way, but it is a truth of limited value. That is to say, it is a thoroughly anthropomorphic
truth which contains not a single point which would be “true in itself” or really and universally valid apart
from man. At bottom, what the investigator of such truths is seeking is only the metamorphosis of the
world into man. He strives to understand the world as something analogous to man, and at best he
achieves by his struggles the feeling of assimilation. Similar to the way in which astrologers considered
the stars to be in man ‘s service and connected with his happiness and sorrow, such an investigator
considers the entire universe in connection with man: the entire universe as the infinitely fractured echo of
one original sound-man; the entire universe as the infinitely multiplied copy of one original picture-man.
His method is to treat man as the measure of all things, but in doing so he again proceeds from the error
of believing that he has these things [which he intends to measure] immediately before him as mere
objects. He forgets that the original perceptual metaphors are metaphors and takes them to be the things
themselves.
Only by forgetting this primitive world of metaphor can one live with any repose, security, and
consistency: only by means of the petrifaction and coagulation of a mass of images which originally
streamed from the primal faculty of human imagination like a fiery liquid, only in the invincible faith
that this sun, this window, this table is a truth in itself, in short, only by forgetting that he himself is
an artistically creating subject, does man live with any repose, security, and consistency. If but for an
instant he could escape from the prison walls of this faith, his “self consciousness” would be immediately
destroyed. It is even a difficult thing for him to admit to himself that the insect or the bird perceives an
entirely different world from the one that man does, and that the question of which of these perceptions of
the world is the more correct one is quite meaningless, for this would have to have been decided
previously in accordance with the criterion of the correct perception, which means, in accordance with a
criterion which is not available. But in any case it seems to me that the correct perception—which would
mean the adequate expression of an object in the subject—is a contradictory impossibility. For between
two absolutely different spheres, as between subject and object, there is no causality, no correctness, and
no expression; there is, at most, an aesthetic relation: I mean, a suggestive transference, a stammering
translation into a completely foreign tongue—for which I there is required, in any case, a freely inventive
intermediate sphere and mediating force. “Appearance” is a word that contains many temptations, which
is why I avoid it as much as possible. For it is not true that the essence of things “appears” in the
empirical world. A painter without hands who wished to express in song the picture before his mind
would, by means of this substitution of spheres, still reveal more about the essence of things than does the
empirical world. Even the relationship of a nerve stimulus to the generated image is not a necessary one.
But when the same image has been generated millions of times and has been handed down for many
generations and finally appears on the same occasion every time for all mankind, then it acquires at last
the same meaning for men it would have if it were the sole necessary image and if the relationship of the
original nerve stimulus to the generated image were a strictly causal one. In the same manner, an eternally
repeated dream would certainly be felt and judged to be reality. But the hardening and congealing of a
metaphor guarantees absolutely nothing concerning its necessity and exclusive justification.
Every person who is familiar with such considerations has no doubt felt a deep mistrust of all idealism of
this sort: just as often as he has quite early convinced himself of the eternal consistency, omnipresence,
and fallibility of the laws of nature. He has concluded that so far as we can penetrate here—from the
telescopic heights to the microscopic depths—everything is secure, complete, infinite, regular, and
without any gaps. Science will be able to dig successfully in this shaft forever, and the things that are
discovered will harmonize with and not contradict each other. How little does this resemble a product of
the imagination, for if it were such, there should be some place where the illusion and reality can be
divined. Against this, the following must be said: if each of us had a different kind of sense perception—if
we could only perceive things now as a bird, now as a worm, now as a plant, or if one of us saw a
stimulus as red, another as blue, while a third even heard the same stimulus as a sound—then no one
would speak of such a regularity of nature, rather, nature would be grasped only as a creation which is
subjective in the highest degree. After all, what is a law of nature as such for us? We are not acquainted
with it in itself, but only with its effects, which means in its relation to other laws of nature—which, in
turn, are known to us only as sums of relations. Therefore, all these relations always refer again to others
and are thoroughly incomprehensible to us in their essence. All that we actually know about these laws of
nature is what we ourselves bring to them—time and space, and therefore relationships of succession and
number. But everything marvelous about the laws of nature, everything that quite astonishes us therein
and seems to demand explanation, everything that might lead us to distrust idealism: all this is completely
and solely contained within the mathematical strictness and inviolability of our representations of time
and space. But we produce these representations in and from ourselves with the same necessity with
which the spider spins. If we are forced to comprehend all things only under these forms, then it ceases to
be amazing that in all things we actually comprehend nothing but these forms. For they must all bear
within themselves the laws of number, and it is precisely number which is most astonishing in things. All
that conformity to law, which impresses us so much in the movement of the stars and in chemical
processes, coincides at bottom with those properties which we bring to things. Thus it is we who impress
ourselves in this way. In conjunction with this, it of course follows that the artistic process of metaphor
formation with which every sensation begins in us already presupposes these forms and thus occurs
within them. The only way in which the possibility of subsequently constructing a new conceptual edifice
from metaphors themselves can be explained is by the firm persistence of these original forms That is to
say, this conceptual edifice is an imitation of temporal, spatial, and numerical relationships in the domain
of metaphor.
2
We have seen how it is originally language which works on the construction of concepts, a labor taken
over in later ages by science. Just as the bee simultaneously constructs cells and fills them with honey, so
science works unceasingly on this great columbarium of concepts, the graveyard of perceptions. It is
always building new, higher stories and shoring up, cleaning, and renovating the old cells; above all, it
takes pains to fill up this monstrously towering framework and to arrange therein the entire empirical
world, which is to say, the anthropomorphic world. Whereas the man of action binds his life to reason and
its concepts so that he will not be swept away and lost, the scientific investigator builds his hut right next
to the tower of science so that he will be able to work on it and to find shelter for himself beneath those
bulwarks which presently exist. And he requires shelter, for there are frightful powers which continuously
break in upon him, powers which oppose scientific truth with completely different kinds of “truths” which
bear on their shields the most varied sorts of emblems.
The drive toward the formation of metaphors is the fundamental human drive, which one cannot for a
single instant dispense with in thought, for one would thereby dispense with man himself. This drive is
not truly vanquished and scarcely subdued by the fact that a regular and rigid new world is constructed as
its prison from its own ephemeral products, the concepts. It seeks a new realm and another channel for its
activity, and it finds this in myth and in art generally. This drive continually confuses the conceptual
categories and cells by bringing forward new transferences, metaphors, and metonymies. It continually
manifests an ardent desire to refashion the world which presents itself to waking man, so that it will be as
colorful, irregular, lacking in results and coherence, charming, and eternally new as the world of dreams.
Indeed, it is only by means of the rigid and regular web of concepts that the waking man clearly sees that
he is awake; and it is precisely because of this that he sometimes thinks that he must be dreaming when
this web of concepts is torn by art. Pascal is right in maintaining that if the same dream came to us every
night we would be just as occupied with it as we are with the things that we see every day. “If a workman
were sure to dream for twelve straight hours every night that he was king,” said Pascal, “I believe that he
would be just as happy as a king who dreamt for twelve hours every night that he was a workman.” In
fact, because of the way that myth takes it for granted that miracles are always happening, the waking life
of a mythically inspired people—the ancient Greeks, for instance—more closely resembles a dream than
it does the waking world of a scientifically disenchanted thinker. When every tree can suddenly speak as a
nymph, when a god in the shape of a bull can drag away maidens, when even the goddess Athena herself
is suddenly seen in the company of Peisastratus driving through the market place of Athens with a
beautiful team of horses—and this is what the honest Athenian believed—then, as in a dream, anything is
possible at each moment, and all of nature swarms around man as if it were nothing but a masquerade of
the gods, who were merely amusing themselves by deceiving men in all these shapes.
But man has an invincible inclination to allow himself to be deceived and is, as it were, enchanted with
happiness when the rhapsodist tells him epic fables as if they were true, or when the actor in the theater
acts more royally than any real king. So long as it is able to deceive without injuring, that master of
deception, the intellect, is free; it is released from its former slavery and celebrates its Saturnalia. It is
never more luxuriant, richer, prouder, more clever and more daring. With creative pleasure it throws
metaphors into confusion and displaces the boundary stones of abstractions, so that, for example, it
designates the stream as “the moving path which carries man where he would otherwise walk.” The
intellect has now thrown the token of bondage from itself. At other times it endeavors, with gloomy
officiousness, to show the way and to demonstrate the tools to a poor individual who covets existence; it
is like a servant who goes in search of booty and prey for his master. But now it has become the master
and it dares to wipe from its face the expression of indigence. In comparison with its previous conduct,
everything that it now does bears the mark of dissimulation, just as that previous conduct did of
distortion. The free intellect copies human life, but it considers this life to be something good and seems
to be quite satisfied with it. That immense framework and planking of concepts to which the needy man
clings his whole life long in order to preserve himself is nothing but a scaffolding and toy for the most
audacious feats of the liberated intellect. And when it smashes this framework to pieces, throws it into
confusion, and puts it back together in an ironic fashion, pairing the most alien things and separating the
closest, it is demonstrating that it has no need of these makeshifts of indigence and that it will now be
guided by intuitions rather than by concepts. There is no regular path which leads from these intuitions
into the land of ghostly schemata, the land of abstractions. There exists no word for these intuitions; when
man sees them he grows dumb, or else he speaks only in forbidden metaphors and in unheard-of
combinations of concepts. He does this so that by shattering and mocking the old conceptual barriers he
may at least correspond creatively to the impression of the powerful present intuition.
There are ages in which the rational man and the intuitive man stand side by side, the one in fear of
intuition, the other with scorn for abstraction. The latter is just as irrational as the former is inartistic.
They both desire to rule over life: the former, by knowing how to meet his principle needs by means of
foresight, prudence, and regularity; the latter, by disregarding these needs and, as an “overjoyed hero,”
counting as real only that life which has been disguised as illusion and beauty. Whenever, as was perhaps
the case in ancient Greece, the intuitive man handles his weapons more authoritatively and victoriously
than his opponent, then, under favorable circumstances, a culture can take shape and art’s mastery over
life can be established. All the manifestations of such a life will be accompanied by this dissimulation,
this disavowal of indigence, this glitter of metaphorical intuitions, and, in general, this immediacy of
deception: neither the house, nor the gait, nor the clothes, nor the clay jugs give evidence of having been
invented because of a pressing need. It seems as if they were all intended to express an exalted happiness,
an Olympian cloudlessness, and, as it were, a playing with seriousness. The man who is guided by
concepts and abstractions only succeeds by such means in warding off misfortune, without ever gaining
any happiness for himself from these abstractions. And while he aims for the greatest possible freedom
from pain, the intuitive man, standing in the midst of a culture, already reaps from his intuition a harvest
of continually inflowing illumination, cheer, and redemption—in addition to obtaining a defense against
misfortune. To be sure, he suffers more intensely, when he suffers; he even suffers more frequently, since
he does not understand how to learn from experience and keeps falling over and over again into the same
ditch. He is then just as irrational in sorrow as he is in happiness: he cries aloud and will not be consoled.
How differently the stoical man who learns from experience and governs himself by concepts is affected
by the same misfortunes! This man, who at other times seeks nothing but sincerity, truth, freedom from
deception, and protection against ensnaring surprise attacks, now executes a masterpiece of deception: he
executes his masterpiece of deception in misfortune, as the other type of man executes his in times of
happiness. He wears no quivering and changeable human face, but, as it were, a mask with dignified,
symmetrical features. He does not cry; he does not even alter his voice. When a real storm cloud thunders
above him, he wraps himself in his cloak, and with slow steps he walks from beneath it.
-End-
Nietzsche, Frederich (n.d.). On truth and lie in an extra-moral sense. Retrieved from
http://oregonstate.edu/instruct/phl201/modules/Philosophers/Nietzsche/Truth_and_Lie_in_an_Ext
tra-Moral_Sense.htm